


Origins

by foolofatook001



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Suicide Attempt, we'll leave it at that I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolofatook001/pseuds/foolofatook001
Summary: In which I provide a bit of a fill-in for the backstory of "Who Killed Markiplier?" according to my own fancy, featuring the Colonel, Mark, Celine, and Damien. This was written before "Damien" came out so it doesn't line up exactly with the details revealed therein.
Relationships: Celine | The Seer/Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Celine/Actor Mark
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for attempted suicide and excessive consumption of alcohol.

Will couldn’t remember a time when he and Mark hadn’t been friends. He couldn’t even remember the first time they met. His mother had told him since he and Mark were born just days apart, and their families were old friends, they had gotten together for dinner a few months after the two boys were born to introduce them. The boys had been friends since.

If Will wasn’t at Mark’s house, Mark was over at Will’s. Most people who saw them together assumed they were brothers: they even looked alike, with the same dark brown hair, bright, laughing eyes, and matching smiles. They were inseparable.

They were joined after a couple years by Damien, the new boy in the neighborhood, and his tagalong younger sister, Celine, whose greatest fear was being left out of the fun. She would use every trick at her disposal to get the boys to let her play with them. Will and Mark thought she was annoying, but Damien was fun, and it was better to play with a group of four than three.

Damien started school first, since he was a year older than Mark and Will, but he was still able to play after school. The year after, Will and Mark were put in the same class (the teacher was never able to tell them apart) and their reign as the kings of mischief began. 

In high school, it was harder to keep the gang together, but they put in the effort, and once Damien got his license, they were out every weekend doing everything and nothing at all. They had other friends, of course, and Will, Mark, and Damien had to do some stern big-brother talks to a couple of Celine’s boyfriends, but no friend or boyfriend could replace the original group.

Damien was the first to graduate, and he went far for university, studying law and politics and leaving a kind of emptiness behind. Mark, Will, and Celine grew a little closer in his absence, but he was always able to fit right back in. Will and Mark were next, parting ways significantly for the first time ever: Mark to the local college, studying acting and screenwriting, and Will to the army. Will wrote home to his friends as often as he could, and kept all their replies. Damien was working for a senator. Celine was going to the same college as Mark. Mark’s grandparents died and left Mark their entire estate, and Mark had moved in; Will was welcome any time. Damien was staying with Mark while he finished his law degree. Celine missed him and wanted him to come home. 

After his time in the army, a clean-shaven but exhausted Will touched down to find Mark waiting for him at the airfield. They practically fell into each other’s arms, glad to see each other after several years. They still looked nearly indistinguishable on the surface, but if you looked closely, you would see that Will seemed to have something a little sadder in his eyes. Mark talked Will into coming to the house to stay, claiming it was too big for just him and Damien. Life is for the _living_ , Will! he added with a laugh. Will thought Mark looked very tired, but chalked it up to work. He agreed to stay in the house.

He’d been to Mark’s grandparents’ house before, of course, but he was struck again by how massive and imposing the place was. He felt a sense of foreboding until Damien opened up the door, his smile lighting up his face, and Celine came flying at him, wrapping her arms around him like she would never let go, and the house came alive with the laughter and chatter of four lifelong friends, reunited at last. 

Celine was at the house often, and Will realized that somewhere along the line, she’d grown into a surprisingly beautiful woman. She wasn’t Damien’s tagalong sister anymore, and Will noticed that Mark also seemed to be noticing that. Mark and Celine always ended up next to each other on the couch when they were all watching television; they had long phone conversations late into the night when she was away. One day, Mark pulled Damien aside and they talked for quite a while. Both men emerged smiling, and Mark told Will, his eyes alight, that he was going to propose to Celine. Will laughed outright, told him he’d expected it months ago, gave his closest friend - his _brother_ \- a hug, and jokingly said he supposed he’d have to fight Damien for the position of best man at the wedding.

Celine said yes - of course she did - and she was absolutely radiant in white. Mark was equally happy, smiling his bright, infectious smile the entire time. Will and Damien were having difficulty keeping the proud smiles from their faces. They were more of a family than ever.

There was only one thing to mar the evening, and that was near the end of the reception. Will had been coaxed into dancing by a somewhat intoxicated Celine, and he realized halfway through that she seemed to have mistaken him for Mark and wouldn’t hear otherwise, even going so far as to try to kiss him at the end of the dance. He turned his head so her lips landed on his cheek, and helped the wobbly bride off the dance floor to her new husband with one quirked eyebrow and half a smile.

That was when he resolved to let his mustache grow out. He was a person apart from Mark; maybe now it was time to have his own defining feature, something that would make him stand out.

Damien laughed at the mustache every day while they had the house to themselves, since the couple were on their honeymoon. Will was told, in no uncertain terms, that he would make Mark and Celine die of laughter when they got back. He looked ridiculous, Damien said. He would look like Colonel Mustard.

When he stubbornly kept growing his mustache, Damien began calling him “Colonel,” mostly as a joke, and by the time Mark and Celine came back from their honeymoon, the nickname had stuck. Mark and Celine did, indeed, die laughing at the sight of the tremendous mustache, but Celine soon said she liked it, and Mark fell into fits of laughter again at the nickname that Damien had given him, adopting it immediately. Will didn’t mind.

A couple years passed, as if in a haze. It wasn’t that they were unimportant, or that things didn’t happen - they just paled in comparison to what came next, when he looked back. Those years were when Celine got into her mysticism, Damien was starting his career as a local politician, and Mark was slowly building up a fortune based on his films and the wealth he had inherited from his grandparents. Will, for his part, took up hunting and often entered into shooting competitions if his army pay was getting a little thin. He also found out he needed glasses, which helped his aim quite a bit. One day, Mark insisted on getting a picture of the four of them done professionally; he drove everyone to a studio to get the portrait taken. Everyone got a copy of it a few weeks later: the four of them stood in a line, Damien looking mostly serious, but with the hint of a smile on his face, his hands resting on top of his cane that he always had with him nowadays; Will with his arms folded over his chest, mustache covering his mouth so one couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not; Mark and Celine turned slightly towards each other, wide smiles on their faces.

It wasn’t too long after that that the arguments started up. At first, Will thought it was just normal. People fought, and when one of them was Mark, who was very used to getting his own way and whose strong-willed personality didn’t take no for an answer, and the other was Celine, who was stubborn in her own way and very clear when she wanted something, fighting would be inevitable. He’d seen it a thousand times as they were growing up. But this… this was something else. The fights were loud, and the anger often carried through several days, leaving him in the middle, trying to patch his friends’ relationship back together. They always made up eventually, but Will worried, and he knew Damien did too. Damien wasn’t even around to see the worst of it, having moved out a while back. 

Will found himself avoiding the house more and more often - inside was where Mark and Celine were, and that meant fights that he would be dragged into and forced to pick a side. Being outside cleared his head; the house sometimes felt like it was suffocating him. He was always fond of a little spontaneity, a little madness, especially after the rigid order of the army, and outside was usually the best place to find some. He explored the grounds thoroughly, until he knew every inch of it as well as he knew his own room. The gigantic chessboard, the golf course, the tennis courts, the fountains, the hedges and gardens and ponds - he knew it all.

He stepped through the front door one day after one of his jaunts outside, only to have Celine run right into him. He staggered back, blinking at her. She took one look at him, tears running down her face, then flung her arms around him. 

He froze. Her breaths shuddered through her entire body as she sobbed into his shoulder. This - this was new. Usually she got just as mad at him as she was at Mark. He’d let her vent to him, or yell at him, whatever she was going to do that day, and then let her cool down on her own while he did the same for Mark. Celine _never_ cried, not really - not even when they were small and she had broken her arm. She faked crying all the time, usually when she wanted something, but he’d been around her long enough to tell the difference. This was real. 

She choked out an explanation into his shirt after a while - she was so _tired_ of the fighting, of the feeling of being on eggshells, that she’d threatened to leave, and Mark had shouted something to the effect of “good riddance” to her and stormed out. She hadn’t meant it, she said sorrowfully. It was the heat of the moment, she added, new tears starting to fall.

His arms had come up to hold her at some point. He didn’t remember deciding to do it. He asked where Mark was and she made an angry little noise and said she hadn’t the slightest idea, tightening her arms around him. Will held her until her breathing settled and she let him go, laughing sheepishly. She told him thanks in a quiet voice that seemed unlike her, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He flinched back a little, not expecting it and suddenly remembering the wedding, and her eyes went flat. She left then, and he stayed there a moment, collecting himself; the entire experience had been a bit surreal. Then he went to find Mark.

Will found him in his office right off of the dining room, angrily dashing off a letter. Will waited until Mark burst out with the whole situation. If it was so awful here, why _didn’t_ she leave, he snapped, throwing his papers down. If it was such a _burden_ to be with him - He slumped down and sagged back into his chair. Will noted the dark circles under his eyes and asked if he’d been sleeping. Mark eyed him suspiciously and said he had, thank you very much. Will looked at him for a moment, then asked if he wanted to talk a bit. Mark sighed, ran a hand through already disheveled dark hair, then agreed.

They went for a long walk, circling the entire estate, Will being an ear for Mark to let out his frustration to. By the time they’d made one lap, however, Mark was looking less angry and more remorseful. By the end of the second lap, Mark was ready to go in and apologize sincerely to his wife, and he thanked Will for helping out. As soon as he was gone, Will let out a quiet sigh. That had been the worst fight yet, but getting Mark out of the house and letting Celine vent seemed to have done the job - for now. It was the worst, being in the middle, he reflected. He couldn’t take sides, but he was expected to by both of them. Heaving another sigh, he went inside to write to Damien and tell him of the latest situation.

Mark left for a business trip a week later, and in the interim, he and Celine had had another fight - and they hadn’t resolved it by the time Mark had to leave. Will spent most of his time outside with one or the other of them - sometimes it just helped to get out of the house, he’d found, and he could be the supportive friend well enough, though that had usually been Damien’s role in the past. But nothing had worked this time.

Mark was gone. Celine spent the first day of the business trip out visiting Damien and some of her other friends. Will stayed at the house and shot. The next day, Celine marched up to him while he was eating breakfast and insisted he come with her to pick out food for dinner; she was going to cook. Will tried to bluster his way out of it (he’d not had good experiences with Celine’s cooking; there was a reason Mark had kept on the cook from when his grandparents had owned the house) but was eventually persuaded into at least coming to the shop. He reasoned that, if it came down to it, he could probably make sure the food was easy to cook.

To Will’s surprise, he found himself actually enjoying going to the shop with Celine. She was happier than he’d seen her for a while - _it wasn’t because Mark was gone, it was just because she had something else to think about, he told himself_ \- and she threw herself wholeheartedly into finding something they could make themselves for dinner. Will wasn’t sure when he’d been roped into the cooking part as well, but he didn’t mind so much; he was just glad to see Celine smiling again. It felt like a return to simpler times, and it was always nice to do something a little mad.

She ended up choosing spaghetti, and privately Will thought there wasn’t much you could do to hurt spaghetti, so it was probably a good choice. They brought it back to the house and took over the kitchen; Celine had given the chef the night off. She then proceeded to boss Will around into making all the food. Will joked that he knew she’d never actually make dinner, and she scoffed but then started laughing. They took their plates of spaghetti out to the back patio because Will was feeling hemmed in again inside, and they talked for hours, like they had done when they were younger. The sun set, and the city lights began to glow, but both of them were reluctant to go back inside. Will leaned back on his elbows, idly stroking his mustache every so often, while Celine tucked her legs up under her long black skirt, looking up at the stars that were slowly starting to emerge. 

Finally, Celine let out a reluctant yawn, and they both realized how late it was. Will stood, stretching out his suddenly-cramping legs, and bid Celine goodnight with a smile after they got in the house. She smiled back, and told him they should do that more often as she climbed the stairs to her room.

The third day of Mark’s absence, Will tried to teach Celine to play poker. She was shockingly good at it - her face was nearly unreadable when she wanted it to be. Finally, Will threw his cards down, accusing her of knowing how to play already. She only smiled mysteriously, then laid down a royal flush. Will banged his head repeatedly on the table, making her laugh. She mentioned she might have picked up some while in school as she scooped up his remaining chips. He shook his head and asked if she wanted to go for a walk. She agreed and they took a long hike up into the hills above the house.

They were back in time for dinner - made by the chef this time - but spent it outside on the patio again. The dining room felt too empty with just the two of them, Celine insisted. After they’d finished, they stayed out again until the sun set and the half moon rose. 

Celine let out a sigh and rested her head on Will’s shoulder. He stiffened and asked what she was doing. She picked her head up and looked at him a bit sleepily, as if the answer was obvious. 

He stood up abruptly and suggested she turn in for the night, if she was already nodding off. With a confused look, she stood as well, asking what was wrong. He simply shook his head and offered to see her inside with a tight smile.

After Celine had gone to bed, Will returned to the back patio, pacing. Finally, he stopped, clenching his fists. He couldn’t do this anymore. She was _Mark’s wife_. He’d thought he could keep his feelings in check, but being in the same house with her, becoming the one she turned to for comfort after a fight, hadn’t helped matters any. 

He had to move out - would move out as soon as Mark came back. He was already strained enough trying to mediate all of Mark and Celine’s fights, had already been considering leaving. This just sealed the deal. Damien had said his house was open any time; he could start there, then find a place of his own. Resolved, Will nodded sharply to himself. He’d call Damien in the morning. Mark would be disappointed; Celine probably would be, too. He tried not to think too hard on that. He would just say he needed a place of his own and he’d still visit, just like Damien. 

He was up early in the morning, before even the chef, going outside to get some target practice in up in the hills. He didn’t want to see Celine; he was afraid of what it might do to his resolve. Alone with a guilty conscience, he shot round after round into the trees, his mind not really on his practice. Celine’s laughing face, her mysterious smile, her hurt eyes after he brushed her off all swam in front of his face. He gritted his teeth and shot again, and again.

When he returned, sweating and still dissatisfied, Mark was back. Will smiled in genuine relief and embraced his friend - his brother - telling him he was glad to have him back. Mark grinned back, but his eyes looked tight as he asked where Celine was. Will frowned. He hadn’t seen her yet, Mark explained. Will shrugged. He’d been up in the hills all morning, shooting. Mark’s frown deepened. Perhaps she was at the shop, getting something for dinner, Will offered, and Mark’s shoulders relaxed. Perhaps, he agreed.

That turned out to be the case, and Celine met Mark with open arms when she came home. Will smiled. At least the trip had done one good thing - Celine and Mark seemed to have forgotten their fight. 

At dinner, Will dropped his news - he was going to find his own place. Mark looked shocked. Celine looked hurt. Will explained, (though he didn’t give them his true reasons) and though neither of them looked satisfied, they said nothing else on the matter. Damien had agreed to let Will stay with him for a little while (It had been too long, he’d exclaimed jovially) and Will wanted to get out of Mark’s house as soon as possible; he was leaving in the morning. He’d always been rather spartan when it came to personal possessions (an old army habit), especially since it wasn’t really his house, and he’d already packed most of his things.

Mark insisted on driving him over to Damien’s house, and of course Celine came along to see him off. The car was quiet, each person lost in their own thoughts. Will felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, though he was sad to go. 

After the car pulled away, Mark and Celine each giving him a hug, Damien gave Will a sympathetic look and held open the door, showing him to his room. Will explained that he wanted to find his own place, hopefully still close by to all his friends, and Damien said he would keep an eye out while he was out campaigning. 

Damien’s house was much smaller than Mark’s, but the bed was comfortable and Damien was good company. He didn’t ask Will about the sudden move and Will didn’t share. He was pretty sure Damien had a good idea of what was going on, and was trying to help him feel comfortable with his choice in his own subtle but still supportive way.

It took Will two months to find a place of his own, but he finally settled into an apartment near the edge of town. All his friends came to help him move in (though there wasn’t much to move) and stayed for dinner. Mark laughed and joked during the meal, but Will couldn’t help but notice the strained quality of his smile. Celine, on the other hand, looked genuinely happy. It was just because she got to see her always-busy brother, he told himself. He was satisfied with his apartment - small enough to be cozy, but large enough for all his friends (the ones that mattered, anyway). It even had a balcony, and there was a large park nearby, so any time he felt confined, he could just _go_. 

The friends tried to get together at least once a month, sometimes at Will’s, sometimes at Damien’s, sometimes at Mark and Celine’s. Mark had hired a butler, and though he was perfectly competent at his job, something about him just rubbed Will the wrong way - it was the smug smile, or the slight air of superiority he seemed to have. 

Every time Will was over at Mark and Celine’s, he always felt somewhat uncomfortable; his reasons for leaving always came to the forefront of his mind. Mark always seemed tense when he was hosting, as well, and Will had no idea why. Somewhere along the way, he and Mark had started drifting apart. They were still friends, and good ones, but something had changed - they didn’t have the same “brother” dynamic that they had once shared. Will supposed it was because he had had to start hiding things from Mark. Mark didn’t tell him much anymore - only the superficial things. He looked perpetually tired. Damien had even voiced his concern to Will after he brought it up and Mark snapped at him. 

It was winter, and the sky was grey. Will remembered it clearly, because that was the day Celine showed up on his doorstep, alone and angry. Her left hand was devoid of any jewelry and her right hand was clutching a battered suitcase. When he opened the door and saw her, his mind went blank. He stood there, staring at her, his thoughts darting from question to question. Why was she at his apartment and not her brother’s house? Where was her wedding ring? Why did she have a suitcase? What _happened_?

That one was the first question that came out of his mouth, and Celine suddenly looked very tired. She asked if she could come in. He said, yes, of course, and took her bag, not knowing what else to do with himself. Celine sat down on the couch, sinking back into the cushions and closing her eyes. Will set the suitcase down beside his armchair, then crossed the room to the couch, sitting opposite Celine, watching her with concern.

She heaved a deep sigh, then sat up a little straighter. She couldn’t stay in the house with Mark for another minute, and she missed him and the way he could help her through the fights, she explained. She wouldn’t look at him. 

Quietly, he asked where her wedding ring was. She looked down at her hands, then admitted it was in her suitcase. He asked if she was planning on staying a while, and she said if he let her she was. Her dark brown eyes were red-rimmed, and he realized she’d been crying again. He felt a sudden swell of anger towards Mark. How could he treat Celine like that? Mark said he loved her, and Will believed it, but when he made her cry? When he made her so distraught that she left? Will’s fists clenched. If _he_ had married Celine - He stopped that thought right there. 

Gently, he took hold of her right hand, which had been worrying at her empty left ring finger, and told her she could stay as long as she needed. The gratefulness in her eyes surprised him. He didn’t want to let go of her hand now that he was holding it, but he forced himself to move back and ask if she wanted some tea. She said some tea would be lovely with a watery smile, and he got up, heading for the kitchen.

That evening, after a small, simple dinner of soup that Will knew would be comfort food for Celine, they sat on the couch in content silence until Will asked, tentatively, if she wanted to talk about it.

Celine fixed her eyes on the picture of the four of them that Will had up on his wall. Mark was different, she said, never looking over at him. Paranoid and angry, quick to lash out at her, or to blame her for something wrong. He treated her with suspicion when she’d been out, as if he didn’t trust that she had left for the reason she gave. He had been spending more and more time shut up in his study, leaving her alone.

Will’s growing anger battled with worry for Mark. Celine was right - he _had_ changed. What had happened to him? And why was it happening?

Celine let out a tired sigh, then finally took her gaze from the picture. She said she was thankful for his listening, and Will just smiled a little and said he’d do it anytime. 

Will let Celine have his bedroom, telling her he would sleep on the couch. He snagged an extra pillow from his bed and took a blanket from the closet. Celine twisted her hands, looking unsure, and said she didn’t want to take his room from him. Will insisted he wouldn’t hear of forcing a lady to sleep on the couch, which made Celine roll her eyes a little but eased her worries.

Will spent the night on the fairly comfortable sofa, tossing and turning and absolutely _not_ thinking of Celine in his bed. She was one of his oldest friends, for pity's sake. She was still married to his best friend! His best friend… who seemed to be changing into someone he didn’t even recognize. Will rolled over, just able to make out the portrait of the four of them on the far wall in the dim light. Damien… maybe Damien would have an idea of what was going on. Just because Will had somehow stopped being the one Mark told things to didn’t mean he didn’t still have a confidant. He also thought Celine should talk to her brother; it would do her good. 

When they explained the situation to Damien the next day, he looked worried, but said it was Celine’s choice what she did now; he would neither condemn nor condone. This he said with an extra glance at Will, who felt the sick feeling of guilt - so familiar - begin to well up in his chest. So Damien knew. He was about to say that it wasn’t like that, he didn’t know why Celine had come to him, he’d tried to stop something like this from happening, when Damien mentioned that Mark had called him that morning, asking desperately if he knew where Celine was. She had him worried, Damien added quietly, and Will felt another surge of guilt. They had been eating dinner and chatting - he’d been thinking about a life where _he’d_ married Celine - and all the while Mark had been going mad with regret and worry. He turned to Celine, but her face was hard. Mark could deal with the consequences of his choices himself, she declared, and Will was a little surprised by her coldness.

They left Damien’s house and began walking down the street toward the bus station that would take them back to Will’s apartment. Celine laced her fingers through Will’s, and he looked down at her, shocked. She smiled back at him and continued forward. Will stumbled along, trying to wrap his head around this sudden display of affection. 

Suddenly he heard pounding footsteps behind him, and he turned around just in time to see Mark’s furious face before a punch landed squarely on his jaw, knocking him back and forcing him to let go of Celine’s hand. Two more punches landed on his stomach before he collected his wits enough to lash out with a fist and knock Mark back, following it up with another shot at Mark’s ribs. Celine screamed for them to stop. Mark spat a curse and lunged at Will again, shouting all the while that he should have known, should have never trusted either of them, should have seen it coming, his wife and his _best friend_ \- 

Mark was forced back and Will scrambled away. Damien, breathing heavily, was holding onto Mark’s arms - he must have run all the way down from his house. Celine grabbed Will’s hand again, tugging him down the street toward the bus station. Behind them, Mark was still shouting furiously, struggling against Damien’s restraining arm. Will’s jaw hurt.

Back at Will’s apartment, Celine gingerly felt his face with cool fingers and declared he was going to have a swollen jaw and a massive bruise by tomorrow. Will winced as he shifted to the side - his ribs had been hit hard as well, though he didn’t think they were broken. He didn’t say anything - what could he say? Celine seemed to sense that he needed a bit of space and made herself scarce after she fetched him some ice for his jaw, though Will’s apartment wasn’t that big. He leaned back in the kitchen chair, ice against his face, and let the sick feeling of guilt wash over him. They _had_ been going behind Mark’s back. He had known that from the moment that Celine had shown up on his doorstep with her wedding ring in her suitcase.

Damien stopped by in the evening, his face drawn and worried. Celine opened the door for him; Will was still in the kitchen, musing and icing his jaw. Mark had gone home, Damien told them. They had a choice now, he added, looking from Will to Celine gravely.

Celine muttered something about assuming the worst. Will shook his head. Damien was right. This was something they had to work out. Would Celine go back home? Would she cut ties with Mark completely? And what would Will do? Deep down, he wanted Celine to stay with him. He couldn’t say he hadn’t been thinking about it - since the wedding, really. But he also knew it would be a betrayal of the worst kind for Mark.

Will’s ribs throbbed, and he clenched a fist. Mark had already made clear his position on the subject - and he’d assumed the worst right away.

Damien left a little while later, repeating that he would neither condemn nor condone whatever choice they made. It sounded as though he had an idea of what the outcome would be already.

Celine turned to him as soon as Damien was gone, asking after his face. It was swelling, she said, her face concerned. Will waved her off. He was fine, he said. He asked what she intended to do. 

Her eyes grew wide. He wanted her to leave?

He was quick to reassure her - of course not. Then he silently cursed himself for telling her the truth.

She didn’t want to go back to the manor. She wanted to stay with him.

With _him_.

She would get the rest of her things from Mark’s house and she would come stay with him. He protested a little. Why not stay with Damien? But Celine was adamant. He protested a little more. She threw her hands up in the air, crossed the kitchen, and kissed him.

That was her choice, she said when she pulled back.

Will stared at her, flabbergasted. 

He supposed he could make do with that.

Will was nervous. The invitation for a poker night at Mark's had showed up in his letterbox quite out of the blue. He hadn't spoken to Mark in years, and had been on quite unfriendly terms with him for all that time. So why was Will being invited over? 

But he'd heard that Damien was going to be there, and perhaps Mark was trying, finally, to reach out, as Damien had said so often he would, so he would go. Celine had not received an invitation. 

He stood before the front door, shifting from foot to foot, wanting to go in yet not quite able to work up the courage. Someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned to see the District Attorney, whom he knew Damien was fairly good friends with (they’d met in college, apparently); he didn't know Mark had known the DA, too. Will hid his surprise and made some polite excuses, ushering the DA ahead of him. The Butler opened the door with his customary smug smirk. He seemed to sneer at Will as he walked through the door.

It was good to see Damien again - it had been too long. Mark had greeted him with a wide smile and a vigorous handshake. Will was surprised, and stayed wary. There was no way Mark had simply forgiven and forgotten… but Will loosened up a little after he'd had a few glasses of champagne. He had to admit, Mark still knew how to throw a party. 

It was late. Will was vaguely aware that he had probably had too much to drink. Suddenly, Mark was at his side, a wide smile on his face. He threw an arm over Will's shoulders and said he wanted him to see the wine cellar - it had been redone since the last time Will was over. Will was confused - something didn't feel right. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Mark was already pulling him toward the stairs (Mark's arm was still over his shoulders) and the wine cellar. 

Once they were in the cellar, Mark shut the door behind them. Will glanced around. The lights were dim and the air was cool, cutting through the alcohol fog and clearing his head a bit.

Mark, still smiling, pulled a revolver from the pocket of his robe. Will froze. This was it. Mark had had years to plan his revenge, and now Will was going to die.

He wished he had seen Celine one more time. 

Mark was still smiling. He knew they'd had some bad blood in the past, he said. But he was willing to forgive it all, if Will would play a little game. 

Will's heart was pounding. What was going _on_? Was Mark insane?

There was one bullet in the revolver, Mark explained, spinning the chamber once, twice, three times. They would each get one shot. Mark would go first. If there was no bullet, Mark would consider all past wrongs forgiven. He spun the chamber again and asked if Will was ready, raising the gun until it was even with Will's forehead. Will couldn't do anything but stare down the barrel of the gun. 

Mark cocked the revolver. He was still smiling. His finger curled around the trigger. Will squeezed his eyes shut.

There was a click, and Mark laughed. It seemed all was forgiven, he said. Will opened his eyes. Mark turned the gun around and presented it, handle first, to Will. The smile hadn't yet left his face. It was Will's turn now, Mark explained good-naturedly. It was only fair. 

Will took the revolver, his hands shaking from the combination of adrenaline and alcohol. Carefully, he cocked it. He was vaguely aware of the words tumbling from his mouth - _Are you sure about this I don't want to do this why are you doing this -_ but Mark was still smiling expectantly. 

Well, come on, Will, he said.

Will raised the gun, aiming for Mark's chest. He fired. There was a thunderous bang, and Mark fell to the floor, blood rapidly pooling beneath him. Will dropped the gun.

Mark was still smiling.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

She left. She  _ left. _ She left! It seemed to be the only thought in his head. Her face as she went, tight with anger and eyes swimming with unshed tears, appeared everywhere he looked. 

He’d frantically called Damien after he’d gotten past his anger a little - if anyone would know where Celine was, it would be her big brother - but he had no knowledge of her whereabouts. Mark spent the entire night pacing, going over their argument again and again in his head and cursing his stupidity and stubbornness. He was fully repentant now; he couldn’t even remember what had started the fight.

In the morning he threw on a change of clothes and hurried over to Damien’s, desperate to know if Celine had turned up. Damien met him with a face that was both sympathetic and grave at the same time. He explained that he had seen Celine, and that she was safe and well, but he didn’t know what she was going to do. Mark sagged with relief -  _ nothing had happened to her _ \- and Damien gave him a sad smile. 

As Mark left, he caught sight of a couple walking down the street ahead of him. The man turned his head, and Mark realized it was Will and Celine. Well! Perhaps Will had been visiting Damien when Celine stopped in and had elected to see her home. 

Then he watched as Celine, laughing, slipped her hand into Will’s and Will stumbled over his own feet, his ears turning red.

Time seemed to freeze.  _ No…  _ Mark stared in horror. His wife… and his best friend? How long - How could they - Why would they - 

He had given Will  _ everything _ ! A place to live, a group of friends, sometimes even the clothes off of his back. They had been closer than brothers. And  _ this _ was how Will repaid him? He snapped back to himself and charged down the street toward them.

He caught one glimpse of Will’s surprised face before throwing a punch right to his jaw, knocking him back, away from Celine, but he stayed on his feet. Mark followed with two punches straight to the gut. Will collected himself and drove a fist into Mark’s side, pushing him back a little. Dimly Mark heard Celine screaming for them to stop, but there was no way he was stopping now. He should have known. He should have seen it coming. His  _ wife _ and his  _ best friend - _

He was forced back suddenly, restraining hands grabbing his arms, and Will scrambled back. Mark watched as Celine pulled him down the street toward the bus station. Once they were out of sight, Damien released his arms. He was breathing heavily, and his face was worried. Mark turned on him, accusing. “You knew,” he said, and Damien looked down and away. Mark shoved him back and stormed to his car. Only after he’d made it home and shut himself in his bedroom did the fury begin to turn to hopelessness.

Celine showed up at the house the next day; Mark happened to be downstairs, eating his breakfast and trying to forget the events of the previous day but knowing he wouldn’t be able to. The bell rang, and the butler answered the door, and there she was. His heart leapt, despite himself. Was she coming back to him? But she walked up the stairs without ever even looking over at him. She came back down several minutes later, two large suitcases in either hand. Mark stood up, frowning. “Where are you going?” he asked, trying to keep the suspicion from his voice.

She stopped with her back to him and seemed to sigh, her shoulders slumping a little. “I’m leaving, Mark. For good.”

He felt the anger at the unfairness of it all welling up again. “To be with  _ him _ ?” he spat, and Celine spun around, her face furious.

“ _ Don’t  _ make this any harder!” she shouted, letting the suitcases drop to the floor. Her fists were clenched. 

“Harder?” he shouted back. “You’ve been cheating on me! How is this hard for you?”

Celine looked away. 

“How could you?” he asked, and he knew the desperation was creeping into his voice, but he had to know. He  _ had _ to, even if he knew hearing it would kill him.

“I - ” She sighed. “He was always there to listen, when we’d been fighting, and he was kind, and he paid me the attention you never did. And somewhere along the line, I just…” She trailed off, looking away.

“Celine, I love you,” he said, trying hard to keep himself together, to keep his heart from breaking. “Don’t - don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Mark,” she said, her face set and her eyes dry.

Then she picked up the suitcases and left. 

Mark just stood there in the hall, frozen. She was gone, for good this time. After all he’d done, after all he’d  _ sacrificed _ , all for her - she was leaving him for  _ Will _ . 

_It’s not_ **_fair_** , he thought, as his fists slowly clenched. _How dare she do that to me? Me!_ He let out a shout of anger and lashed out at the nearest table, knocking it on its side, then collapsed in sobs. How could she leave like that? Suddenly the anger drained away, and hopelessness washed over him. What was the point? Celine didn’t want him. Will - closer than a brother - had betrayed him in the worst way. Damien had known everything and hadn’t cared enough to tell him before his heart was shattered. 

Mark found himself upstairs in his room. He locked the door behind him as if in a dream. He crossed to the dresser and pulled out the knife that he had somehow known would be there.

He lifted the knife until the tip was resting just beneath his sternum. Then he took one last deep breath, and drove the knife in. 

Blackness overtook him, and he was thrown into a vast, echoing space where no light penetrated. He was alone. The stab wound throbbed angrily. As he stared into the darkness, he suddenly felt as if something were standing just behind him. He couldn’t hear anything or see anything, but he knew it was there all the same, and the feeling made shivers run up and down his spine. And yet at the same time, the feeling was a familiar one. Suddenly he was kicked back to himself, and he was staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom.

He didn’t know how long he lay on the floor in agony, but it became clear eventually that the wound would not be a fatal one. Slowly, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and yanked the knife out. The red wound gaped, but no blood came out. He stared at the blade for a moment, confused, then, hands shaking, he placed the knife between two of his ribs and drove it in again. He returned to the darkness and again, there was the feeling of the frightening and familiar presence behind him, and again, he returned to his bedroom. He wheezed in pain as he pulled the knife out, but again there was no blood. He tried again and again but he couldn’t  _ die. _ Finally, his chest throbbing from the pain of dozens of stab wounds, he threw the knife across the room. Useless!

He tried everything over the next few months, whenever all the staff had their weekend off - he was quite methodical about it. Poison. Jumping from the roof repeatedly. Hanging. Drowning. Each time he went to the dark place and then came back. Nothing worked. The pain never went away, and neither did the injuries. The knife wounds were still as fresh as the day he had got them. The bruises around his neck from the rope wouldn’t fade; neither would the ones from his falls. He took to wearing his bathrobe and a high cravat, to cover the marks. He didn’t go out, didn’t see anyone. 

At first, he was angry. Why couldn’t he just die and end his misery? But as the years passed by, all the time he spent in the house brought something to his attention. The feeling he had got in the dark place - he got it sometimes in the house, a sense that something was standing at his shoulder, hovering over him.

He began developing a theory. Time and space had never always seemed quite straightforward in the house - people complained of being on the first floor and oddly finding themselves on the second without remembering how they got there, or being unable to find a certain place for a long time. Perhaps death, in this house, was likewise not quite… normal. And after he had that thought, another seemed to present itself in his mind immediately - perhaps he could use these pieces of information to his advantage. What better way to ruin Will and Celine than to frame them for his murder? He knew Celine had loved this sort of thing - spirits and forces and nonsense. She’d be unable to stay away, once he dropped her some “anonymous” hints. And Will - they hadn’t spoken to each other since that day when Mark had found out about his betrayal, but if he knew Damien, he would have been urging Will to try to repair the relationship; there were enough discarded letters from the mayor to him trying to do the same thing. If it seemed like Mark was trying to reach out, Will would probably come - or Damien would talk him into it.

He would invite Damien, too, and Abe, the detective - there couldn’t be a good whodunit without a detective and witnesses. And maybe even a lawyer. He thought of the District Attorney, whom he had met at a party a while back - Damien had introduced the two of them, and the up-and-coming lawyer had impressed him then. Yes, he would invite the DA, too. It would round out the cast nicely.

Mark set to his arrangements methodically. First, his “death.” He would make Will do it. That was certain. But how to go about it? He pondered as he walked through the house. Finally, he lit on the idea of Russian roulette. He could rig it easily, if he practiced. He would fire at Will first, make him fear for his life, then pass the gun over and have his former best friend kill him. He smiled. Poetic. 

Where to do it? The wine cellar came to his mind immediately - it was away from the rest of the house and nearly soundproof. Yes, that would be perfect. It reminded him of the Poe story - oh, what was it called -  _ A Cask of Amontillado _ . He’d always been fond of that one. 

Mark spent hours down in the cellar. He’d set up a target and claimed he was doing target practice, so as to not raise too much suspicion. He told the chef and the butler to start making preparations for the party he would be hosting, to keep them out of the way, and he practiced spinning the chamber of the revolver to get the bullet exactly where he wanted it.

He dictated a letter to Celine, having the butler write and sign it, detailing the odd happenings in the house and indicating his belief that it was something supernatural in origin. He invited her to the house the day after the poker night and offered to let her investigate, since he knew her expertise in such matters. He also mentioned, off-hand, that Mark would not be present. He knew her curiosity and arrogance wouldn’t let her stay away.

All was ready; the only thing left was to send out the invitations. He addressed them all personally. The Detective. The Mayor. The Colonel (he grimaced at the old nickname but wrote it anyway). The District Attorney. He sent them out with the mail the next morning and received replies in the affirmative from all of them within the next few days.

Abe the detective was the first to arrive on the evening of the party, and Mark spent a little time chatting with him, but his mind was not on the conversation. Mentally, he was running through the evening. He would ply everyone with drinks, then coerce William into seeing the cellar. Then he would pull out the revolver and they would play their little game, and the stage would be set.

Damien was the next guest to arrive, and as Mark shook his hand the mayor commented on how long it had been and how good he looked. Mark held back a dark chuckle. If only he knew. That was when he felt the presence at his back again, and he took another look at Damien. 

While he and Will had always been the ones that looked the most alike - well, until Will had decided to grow that  _ stupid _ mustache - Damien was similar in appearance to him as well. Perhaps… He shook Damien’s hand once more and went upstairs, musing. If he could get Damien and himself in the dark place at the same time, perhaps he could get himself into Damien’s body. If he asked the presence to hold the mayor back - yes, that would do nicely. He absently rubbed a hand over his chest, wincing as it hit the knife wounds concealed by the red robe. 

He heard the bell ring downstairs and William’s blustering voice. He bit back a snarl. The butler came up a few minutes later, informing him that all the guests had arrived.

Perfect.

He made his grand entrance down the main staircase, smiling brightly and all the while running through the plan in his head. “So drink up, and be merry! Life is for the living,” he finished. “And who knows?” he added, starting to chuckle at his own diabolical cleverness. “I could be dead tomorrow!” He threw his head back and laughed loudly.

Lights. 

Camera.

_ Action. _


End file.
